Ginny

Relato enviado para o podcast Let's Not Meet

In 1997, I was an exchange student living in a big city in the south of the United States. It was the beginning of winter sports season when I decided to join the school’s track team. I’ve always been curious about pole-vaulting, so I took the chance to start practicing it in the afternoons.

Around February of 1998, a new girl started at my school. She had an interesting name, at least different from all the Jessicas and Jennifers and Ashleys I used to know, so she kind of had my attention. I’m going to call her Ginny.

Ginny was approximately my height, 5’4”, and somewhat skinny. She had dark hair, a fair complexion and foxy green eyes. Knowing now that I was already bisexual at that time, I can tell I was drawn to her, but at that time I probably thought I was just curious about her.

Ginny acted a bit removed, though sometimes she would speak bluntly about things. People talked about how she had changed schools because she had become a foster child just recently. Being a foreigner, I struggled to understand the concept of fostering children, so I didn’t really know what was going on in her life.

One day, Ginny joined our track team and started practicing with us after school. On her first day of practice, I noticed she had no appropriate running shoes to wear, so I offered her an extra pair I had at home. Living only two blocks away from the school track, we ran to my host family’s house to pick up the shoes and go back to training.

I remember my host-sister’s look on her face when Ginny came into the house and waited by the door facing the living room where my sister had been watching TV. As we used to pick on each other about anything, I didn’t really mind her expression of shock and just left with Ginny after handing her my sneakers.

When I got back from practice, Ginny’s whole story started to make sense to me:

She had, indeed, just changed schools recently. She had become a foster child after being held captive by her own father. She had been chained to a wall in the basement and starved. She had been subjected to sessions of violence and torture, and I must confess, I didn’t want to hear all the details my sister was willing to share. It just so happens that, as we entered the house that afternoon, she had been watching the news when Ginny’s story came up. Her face was shown all over the news, though her name was different. Apparently, she had changed her name after the incident, in an effort to start anew.

Ginny, I hope you never meet your tormentor again.